


Arpeggiate

by OwlinAutumn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfy Mycroft, Greg's a Romantic, M/M, Mycroft Has an Alter Ego, Mycroft Plays the Cello, Relationships are strange and difficult, Sherlock is Sherlock, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Then It Gets Pretty Requited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlinAutumn/pseuds/OwlinAutumn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon meeting a very different Mycroft, one who plays cello beautifully among other things, Greg is mystified, which he wouldn't have thought possible with the already enigmatic elder Holmes. Fascinated by the man and enchanted by his music from afar, Greg is unable over the years to keep from fantasising about him. Herein he finishes a loveless marriage, manages to overcome curious circumstance, shepherd a taciturn Sherlock and unlock for himself the puzzling dichotomy of Mycroft Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Townhouse at Chelsea Park Gardens

The first time Greg Lestrade set foot in that curious and charming Chelsea townhouse, it was a wet winter afternoon. A text from Sherlock Holmes had appeared on his phone:

        **22 Chelsea Park Gardens ASAP Re: Devlin Case. SH**

It wasn't that unexpected, to be honest. After tolerating Sherlock's habit for months in deference to his rather brilliant mind, the DI had restricted the young man to cold cases and information tracking. Holmes had appeared at a crime scene so high he didn't realise he was speaking in French half the time and nearly managed to ruin half the evidence in an attempt to disprove Anderson's theory. Greg finally put his foot down and banished him from crime scenes until further notice. Since then, he had been receiving emails and texts either demanding meetings at the drop of a hat or doling out leading information to perpetrators dredged from newspaper articles and cold cases in single syllables and short, sharp sentences.

There was also the occasional text of pure abuse, which the DI usually just deleted.

The Devlin case was cold, particularly nasty, and rather close to Greg’s heart. It had been one of the last unsolved cases he’d been assigned as a Detective Sergeant, and it had haunted him for months after. It was certainly one he’d be particularly happy to see closed, and his curiosity as to what Sherlock had to offer was already peaking.

Knowing the young detective, if Greg sent an affirmative reply, he'd end up dragged halfway across London, possibly struggling with a stranger in a dark, dripping alleyway after having broken several laws (on Sherlock's part, usually). Then again, it would be far more interesting fare than the rest of his day promised otherwise. There was little but paperwork staring at him for the rest of the afternoon and nothing else to look forward to but a bland dinner with his wife, who’d become more and more distant since he’d been promoted.

After a few minutes hesitation, he replied with a simple **OMW.**

Of course, it left him with the unenviable decision of finding an excuse to take a panda car, paying for a taxi, or sludging through the wet and cold. It wasn't too far away, but keeping dry would almost be worth the cost or the begging.

In the end, he pulled his coat collar up and braved the weather. It was hardly a long way; after all, he'd chased criminals farther on foot in his beat days. It did make him think twice once again about buying himself a small umbrella, something he had always just shrugged off when he was younger. Ah, the signs of getting old; silver hair and a brolly besides.

A short time later he was standing in front of one of a series of large brick townhouses on a private road shaded by huge oaks, fronted by neatly trimmed hedges and shaped potted trees. It was posh, but quirkily so, and the houses certainly looked welcoming; none of that Belgravian formal white stucco, columns, cold stone and cement. Instead it was all warm brick, wide windows and greenery; subtle and welcoming. Even if it was, well, bogglingly huge. He even thought he could hear the faint strains of a cello from somewhere, lovely and low, perhaps a tad melancholy; Christ, it was like something out of a film. Of course, villains could live just about anywhere, but it was a shame if that were the case. If a mansion could look anything like a home, this would likely be it, in Greg's opinion.

Caught up in his admirations, it took him another moment to remind himself why he was there. A glance up and down the block revealed no Sherlock in sight, and it took more courage than he would've liked to admit to chance knocking at the door. If this was a stakeout or worse, one of Sherlock's illegal 'search and seizures' ( _"I'm not the policeman, why should I have to worry about it?" "That's not the point, Sherlock!"_ ), he might ruin everything or risk getting himself or Sherlock in serious trouble, and surely a stranger would be noticed quickly on this street. Damn Sherlock for not including more detail in his curt texts, and damn himself for not asking! He really should know better by now.

It took another few hesitant minutes before Lestrade gathered the courage to knock. The moment his knuckles met dark wood, the door was whipped open. The DI's heart almost stopped before he recognised a stormy-eyed Sherlock, lips drawn in an impatient frown.

Greg's first thought, when his mind stopped blanking, was, _Was he waiting on the other side this whole time?_

       “Lestrade. Where have you been?”

Before Greg could even answer, Sherlock twirled an imperious about-face and flicked a lazy hand as a motion to follow him before he swung the door back at Greg, who had to catch it before it took his nose off.

The DI stepped in and closed the door as quietly as possible, glancing around surreptitiously while wiping his feet on the rug that was probably worth more than he’d care to think about. The cuffs of his trousers were sodden, and he hoped to God that he wouldn't drip too much or ruin anything; likely there wasn't any rug or carpet in this place his paycheque could even begin to cover.

       “Aren't you coming?” Sherlock’s voice called after him, dark curls disappearing through a door at the end of the long hall.

Still, Greg continued to hesitate. This was all truly odd. Normally, if not summoned to the seedy bedsit Sherlock called home, any address Sherlock directed him to usually had to do with a case. But here they were, and from the vague glimpses he'd got before the door nearly landed in his face and again before he'd been slightly intimidated by the floor coverings, Sherlock was barefoot, clad in his usual t-shirt, pyjamas, and a dressing gown. It was what the DI had come to call the lad's flouncing attire, and Sherlock only wore it at home. Not to mention, he'd looked sober as Greg’d ever seen him. There was definitely something very strange happening here.

He trailed after Sherlock slowly, completely distracted by the decor, an amazing mix of modern and antique. All of it once again somehow managed to be both expensive yet understated. He'd been inside a considerable number of posh homes in his time at the Yard, into Belgravia and beyond, and as a rule, they were generally showy or austere. None of them usually managed this mixture of stately and comfortable. Something about it said that a family had lived here for generations. The cello he'd heard before was louder inside the house, too, underscoring the warmth and yet adding a degree of solitude.

It took him a few moments, but Lestrade finally managed to stop staring at everything and made it to the door at the end of the hall.

       “Sorry, but look, Sherlock, what are we … “

Okay, definitely something strange was happening. Greg found himself in a long formal dining room, easily kitted out to host a sizeable party or family gathering. One that had apparently been covered in pictures, maps, drawings, scrawled notes, and strange webs of string. It looked like either a giant spider or someone with a cat’s cradle fixation had mated a dining room with one of the Yard’s incident rooms. Now the DI was absolutely certain this house had nothing to do with the case, or at least not in the way Greg had thought.

       “You’re living here.”

       “Obvious. Get over here, Lestrade, and have a look at this.”

       “Sherlock! What happened to the bedsit? Are you telling me you've this whole house to yourself?”

       “Why does it matter? None of that is pertinent to the Devlin case,” Sherlock snapped, throwing his hands in the air before flailing at one section of coinciding mad string construction and vaguely unhinged photo collage.

The look of reprimand the DI shot him somehow managed to have an effect, and the younger man let out a little noise of exasperation before letting his arms drop and looking away. That he was unable to meet Lestrade's gaze told the DI he was actually embarrassed, an emotion Greg hadn't thought the young detective capable of.

       “Fine, I- I was kicked out of the bedsit. One of my experiments fell slightly … out of parameters. Apparently, neither the landlord nor the tenant in the flat below mine appreciated the _minute_  holes left in the floor. I was therefore forced to retreat here if I was to continue my work and not waste precious time. This is … where I grew up, my family home. To be more precise, my elder brother Mycroft’s, now that Mother has become ensconced in the country. He always keeps my room for me exactly as I left it, and often reminds me of the fact, as he is a controlling git who cannot keep his fat fingers out of my life. Unfortunately, it occasionally becomes useful."

       “’S he the reason you seem marginally clean, too?”

       “Ugh, _yes._  Mycroft refuses to allow my ’habit’ under _his_  roof, no matter how I assure him that I have my usage well under control. I hardly suffered any withdrawals, one would think that would be proof enough for him. ' _His_ ' roof, hrmf.”

Sherlock ignored the snort from Lestrade, amusement derived both from the younger Holmes using his fingers as quotations as well as the idea that the lad’s addiction was anything like under control.

       “Well, good for him. I'm amazed he’s been able to keep you to your word. I can never find your stashes.”

       “Word nothing, Lestrade. As if I would stay sober unless I chose to! To my everlasting ignominy, I have never been able to keep anything physically hidden from him, ever. Of course, anyone who can stash food away like he can has an unerring sensibility for hiding places. He was known for it at school, the obese scenthound; he had caches of sweets hidden from here to Norway. It makes it impossible to keep anything of the sort in the house. Not to mention if I even attempt to go looking for a fix, his _cronies_  tail me _very badly_ , thereby scaring away my sources. It is intolerable.”

Lestrade couldn't help smirking.

       “Sounds like tough love. You could do with a bit of that, I should think. I'd shake your brother's hand if he managed to keep you clean.”

       “Unlikely. He hates tampering with his schedule, and he'd probably have to squeeze you in between tea with the Queen and beheading the Shadow Cabinet. Now, are you satisfied as to the provenance of my situation here? May I show you what I actually summoned you for? Or will you next be insisting on a detailing of the familial tree and a tour of the other Holmes-Vernet properties? A trip to the Lake District or France may suit you, perhaps?” Finishing with a huff, Sherlock flung himself into a table chair which creaked in antiquarian protest.

       "Actually, I do have one other question."

       "Of course you do. _What?_ " It was amazing how, even muffled with his hands over his face, Sherlock managed to sound so imperious.

       "Did you leave the stereo on upstairs or something?"

       "What?" The younger man looked genuinely stunned for brief moment, hands falling to his side, before his eyes rolled practically out of his head. "Oh. Gods, no. Who would record that drivel? Ignore it. It's the only thing to do when Mycroft insists on sawing away."

       "That's your _brother_  playing? Christ." Greg turned and took several steps towards the door, leaning as if he could see out the door and up the stairs.

       "I _know_ , it's _terrible._ "

       "No, it's pretty damn excellent, actually. Better than the random plucking and hawing you do on your poor violin." The DI chuckled, realising the brothers apparently had the same habit of playing and thinking, though their instruments weren't the same. As if Sherlock would tolerate that. "You still have that old thing, right? Didn't leave it behind, did you?"

       "I could hardly leave my Stradivarius behind me, could I? I am not _that_ careless, Lestrade. Besides, it's rather dear to me, and Mummy would have a fit."

       "A … Sherlock, you had a _Strad_ living with you in that place? Shit, man! You could've been robbed at any time!"

       "You are a comedian, Lestrade. As if anyone in their right mind would suspect I had a priceless antique violin in that bedsit. Rubbish and nonsense."

       "That's what I'm saying! Why on earth-"

       "Lestrade! Focus!" Sherlock was pinching the bridge of his nose as if exasperation would otherwise cause his head to explode. "The Devlin case, _please_."

       "Ah. Right, well. Okay, fine. Show me what you've got."

Lestrade shoved his hands into his coat pockets and listened, rapt, as Sherlock outlined the unsolved murders and the clues that led him to his suspect. The DI asked numerous questions, outlined necessary clarifications, and Sherlock, with not a little dramatic flare, answered each to full satisfaction. Somewhere along the way, without Lestrade noticing, the cello had gone silent. An hour later, Greg clapped his hands together, pulling himself up from his chair, and patted Sherlock on the back.

       "Another one solved, looks like. Tomorrow I'll get the paperwork set up and have John Cook brought in for questioning. It's been long enough, even with that window washer stunt you pulled, I'm sure he won't even see it coming. Sherlock, you've done good work here."

       "Yes, well, I wasn't involved back then, or it probably would've been solved sooner."

Sherlock probably knew of Lestrade's involvement in the original case, but Lestrade let the sting roll off his back.

       "You know, now you're clean, I might consider bringing you back in on some scenes when we're in dire straits. If you promise you'll be on your best behaviour."

Of course, Sherlock's best behaviour was likely keeping his vitriol to a minimum whilst staring daggers at them all, especially Anderson, but he'd take what he could get.

       "I … suppose that sounds possible," the younger man was obviously trying for nonchalant, but Lestrade could hear the eager undertones. "Until then, if I could keep the remaining cold cases ..?"

       "Of course. I-"

The unexpected sound of a door opening at the far end of the room had them both turning around. Mycroft Holmes emerged from what could've only been the kitchen bearing a tray. Lestrade realised he'd met the man before as he took in the austere and serene face with its pointed patrician nose and dimpled chin, the slicked dark hair with a forelock that just dared to curled tellingly, and frighteningly sharp silver-blue eyes examining him over a slim pair of glasses. The same eyes that were glaring at the elder Holmes out of his brother's face. Oh, Greg could see it now; the curly hair and the eyes, the fingers and the height. They weren't built to exact matching specifications, the Holmes boys, but they definitely shared the same blood.

The first time Greg Lestrade had met Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft had come to his office in the middle of the night and woke Lestrade at his desk. The elder Holmes never gave him his name and apparently ignored the fact that he'd found the man asleep at work; he simply grilled him about Sherlock, menacing the DI quietly in his elegant three-piece suit, wearing no spectacles at the time and armed with only an umbrella, as if he needed any other weaponry, with the intelligence that flashed in those bright, cold eyes.

He insinuated that encouraging Sherlock to help with investigations would be in Greg's best interest, then practically evaporated into thin air. Lestrade could still recall the faint scent of expensive aftershave and cigarettes that lingered after the man had gone, and how he'd tried to ignore the way the combination made his mouth water.

Since then, Greg had spotted him a few times, hovering at the edge of crime scenes, but he tended to vanish like smoke before the DI could even think to try and talk to the man. Nor had the mysterious figure approached or even contacted him. The man had certainly been mystifying, but he never again darkened Greg's doorstep, so the DI'd hardly spared a thought for him until now.

Now, here Mycroft was, the mystery man of late night veiled threats, ghostly crime scene hauntings; of brotherly foils and protections, alternately, and of brilliant cello playing, apparently. The elder Holmes was missing the suit and umbrella, looking serene in his button up and cardigan, bespectacled and bearing a tray of tea and accoutrements. He was a completely different creature and not, all at once, looking smart and yet relaxed, patrician and yet buttoned down; it made Greg want to call him _Professor_  and get him a jacket with elbow patches on.

He was a perfect fit for the Holmes' family home, actually, now Greg thought on it. For all the affectation of mystery that Sherlock put on, the coat and the Byronic flair, it all lay on Mycroft's shoulders naturally, a prince of enigma. Greg didn't know whether to be irritated by the chameleonic change or turned on, although a warmth in his belly betrayed his brain ever so slightly. If only he was a few years younger and single. As if any version of Mycroft was even touchable …

       "Detective Inspector," Mycroft looked Greg in the eye, giving him a slight smirk that made Lestrade feel as if he'd read every last thought he'd just had. "I can see Sherlock welcomed you to our home just as he is accustomed to, without taking your coat or making you at all comfortable. As long as you've been here, surely you are still chilled. Tea and brandy, then. Please," he motioned to the tray after setting it on the table near Greg's elbow, "Help yourself. Sherlock, there is tea for you as well. Do try to leave the poor man a few biscuits. Now, if you will excuse me."

       "I almost didn't recognise you, you know," Greg smiled, looking down at the tray before glancing up at Mycroft.

The elder Holmes shrugged artlessly before moving away, a simple smile on his lips.

       "That is rather the point, Detective Inspector."

       "You won't join us?"

       "I have business upstairs I must attend to, I'm afraid."

       "Shame. Thanks, then." He paused only a second before adding, "You play wonderfully, by the way."

Mycroft had made it to the hall door, then froze, his hand on the frame. He gave it a minute squeeze, the tiniest of tells, and let his head turn to the side without looking back.

       "I … Thank you."

With that, he was gone, and Lestrade could've sworn he'd seen the beginnings of a blush on the man's pale skin before he darted out into the brighter hallway. Greg's mind was clicking over at the absolute difference between the warm, vital Mycroft he'd just met and the ghost he'd been half aware of. It was a few moments before he realised he was staring at the doorway, an impression of Mycroft hovering there still fading in his vision.

Sherlock had generally ignored the entire conversation, having dived on his tea the instant Mycroft had moved away from it. Already he had made a severe dent in the small stack of biscuits. Next to the cup obviously meant for Greg, there was a small snifter of brandy, several lemons and a tiny jar of honey. Thoughtful.

       "That man is confusing as hell, Sherlock."

The younger Holmes snorted, crumbs flying as he mumbled, "And you hardly even know him."

********

 

A/N: Wow, I didn't realise notes attached so oddly. I guess I'll be doing this instead! 

Aaaaaa my first Mystrade fic (that I've had the nerve to publish, anyhow) aaaaaaa! I hope you will enjoy it. I think it shall be about four chapters, six at most with an epilogue. I'm already a bit over half done, I think, but we shall see. I'll publish the next chapter in a few days, I suspect, with hopes to finish the whole thing in a week or two - I'm very busy at work right now, so I cannot promise consistency, but I do promise it will eventually have an ending!

I'm not even sure guys, really. This all came out of my headcanon that both Holmes boys are musicians and play to think. I've always imagined Mycroft to play multiple instruments, especially piano and cello, as they are my favourite string instruments and well suited to him. I also adore the idea that Mycroft mostly works out of his home when he doesn't have to be in meetings or occasionally visiting other countries, and that he's a bit of a homebody when he is at home. These ideas on top of randomly looking at expensive London flats and townhomes and suddenly I'm 7k words in and wondering what the heck just happened.

As a last byword, this is not Britpicked nor is it Betaed. If you wish to offer such services unto me or give me any critique, I will welcome it gladly. Thank you so much, and thank you for reading! :D


	2. Time and Tide Will Never Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's life has set patterns: he works hard, his marriage declines, he works harder. But as he aligns himself with Sherlock, the disparity of the elder Holmes' public persona vies with the short memory Lestrade holds in his head of a bookish, thoughtful cellist. Over time, curiosity gets the better of him ...

For several years after, the life and work of Greg Lestrade and its satellites shaped a complex pattern.

Greg would work hard, dedicate himself thoroughly to his life's calling and the solutions that would close cases and bring peace to the families of the victims. He tried his hardest to be as honest and hardworking as possible. It wasn't work towards any kind of promotion, as the title of Detective Inspector had been Greg's goal from before he'd joined the police service. Nor was it all just to prove himself worthy of his title. It was true, honest grit and dedication, because Lestrade was that kind of man.

Unfortunately, his wife, Hannah, felt on the whole neglected and dissatisfied. She and Greg had married very young, partially due to a pregnancy scare that was then followed up by going through with the marriage anyhow. Greg had felt it only proper; he'd proposed, after all, no matter the circumstances at the time. Everyone had been so happy for them, and if everyone else had thought they were perfect for each other, surely they were?

Many's the time Hannah had looked back on those days and wished her husband had been less honourable, or she'd not been so blasé. The affection they'd shared lasted only a while, and once it had worn away, there was little else left. A marriage of convenience may have sat well with Greg, who hardly had time to breathe in-between his shifts. Yet, for a primary schoolteacher whose club scene days were an all too fond memory and whose evenings and weekends were bereft of a man whose absence was almost a relief, it chafed.

You see, when Mrs. Lestrade had signed up to be a copper's wife, the schedule had hardly been a consideration. But she'd certainly never expected her husband to become one of the most competent DIs in New Scotland Yard's CID, and she certainly wasn't on good terms with the hours that came with it. To him, the work was more important than anything, including her, or so she seemed to think. Unable to supplement fading affection with time, by their twentieth anniversary the marriage bed was fairly chilled, and Hannah gladly laid the blame squarely on Greg's shoulders.

Indeed, Hannah occasionally outlined these thoughts to him, far too often at the top of her lungs at all too late an hour, luridly describing the job as 'his mistress.' Generally these outbursts would be followed by a period of her ignoring him altogether, at times leaving him to his own devices for dinner, to do his own washing, and even to attend friend and family occasions alone. His heartfelt protests generally fell on deaf ears. He would apologise and promise to try harder until his face turned blue, but then he was still off to the Yard every day and working anytime his phone rang. It was all fuel for Hannah's growing dissatisfaction.

After one of these bouts, Lestrade would often throw himself into the work even harder. He would solve some of his cases, but find himself in over his head on others, and he was always a man who knew when to ask for help, at least where it truly mattered. Sherlock would be called in to help with said cases, when Greg was certain he was staying clean, but often in those first few years at some point the younger Holmes would fall back on using cocaine. Eventually he would muck up his relationship with the Met by showing up high to a crime scene or to court, or he would ruin his situation with his current landlord or flatmate in some complex and outrageous way … possibly all three and more besides.

Yet, even after Sherlock finally laid off the powder for good, his experiments and ill temper didn't spare him similar experiences. Sherlock would end up once again working out of his brother's townhouse, repeatedly restrained to cold cases, until he dried out or shaped up and found a new place to live, and then the whole cycle would begin anew.

Whereupon Lestrade found himself in the lovely townhouse at Chelsea Park Gardens quite a number of times during those years, and for a very long time he saw not freckle nor curly forelock of the enigmatic Mycroft Holmes.

He did _hear_ him. Did he _ever_.

Sherlock let slip at some point that Mycroft’s office was on the first floor, and though he knew the Holmeses had unseen ninja-like servants, Greg could only picture Mycroft shifting about when he heard movement in the rooms above. Lestrade was always ushered straight into the dining room that Sherlock always appropriated for his use, save for the occasional trip to the toilet. Passing the stairs, he sometimes heard odd tapping noises or murmurs of what he could only imagine was phone conversation, unless Mycroft had a habit of talking to himself. Then, of course, there was the cello.

Christ, that cello.

The cello was the musical equivalent of Mycroft himself, Lestrade became convinced of it. Lovely and low, melancholy, solitary, secretive, yet playful and warm at times.

Greg had attended a couple classical music concerts in his time - mostly student or community stuff with mates involved, but still - and he had opened an ear now and again to the music played at his local coffee shop while waiting in line. Due to his childhood of partially mum-forced and partially self-taught musical training, he knew what a cello looked like, and could reasonably identify the sound of one.

Still, being intrigued and always wanting to be better informed, he sought information on the object of his curiosity. A browse on Google one fateful day shot half an afternoon to hell, split between the image search and YouTube. The pictures in his head, with Mycroft superimposed on each, took embarrassing months to dissipate, and anytime he visited the house at Chelsea Park Gardens the imaginings flooded back. Lestrade found himself constantly lectured by Sherlock for his mind wandering if he visited and his brother was off, wherever it was in the house, playing that blasted cello.

It was unbecoming of a married man, but it was a secret, guilty pleasure, and surely he was allowed one of those after what was becoming years of putting up with Sherlock, not to mention a difficult and often thankless job, and a wife who was growing increasingly distant. It was, after all, a harmless fixation that he neither could nor would act upon. When would he ever be given an opportunity? And if he was, he'd probably be discretely murdered if he tried anything. The distraction of visualising the man and his instrument pleasantly occupied him when Sherlock went off on one of his long, rambling explanations, and that's all. For that, at least, the DI was secretly very grateful for Mycroft's physical absence. After all that - right, call a spade a spade, Lestrade - _fantasising_ , Greg doubted he'd be able to restrain himself from staring.

Lestrade did occasionally spot Mycroft outside the house. The dichotomy fascinated him; the slick government man with the cold smile, encased in his untouchable and pristine three piece suits vied with the memory of the relaxed and obliging academic in glasses. He watched from a distance as the man sneered at PCs manhandling his brother, or bowed his head, waiting as his sibling spouted abuse at him until he finally ran dry. Holmes the elder commanded attention, dictating clinically to his rather lovely young assistant, giving men in black suits quiet orders or delivering dissecting stares from across whatever dank car park or alleyway was standing in for a crime scene at whatever unholy hour of night it might be. He was certainly a far cry from the comfortable and solitary intellectual Greg always pictured in those rooms overhead, the one who thoughtfully served tea with brandy to warm a sodden fellow up and played cello at all hours.

More than once, Greg was fairly certain he caught Mycroft eyeing him up from a distance, giving him far less the clinical stare he seemed to give most everyone else. It made him smirk ruefully at himself; a foolish notion, really. Mind playing tricks on him, as Mycroft’s interest was in him as his brother’s keeper and almost certainly nothing more. All that daydreaming about the cellist that, let's face it, really only existed in his mind was obviously starting to get to him. For what could that extraordinary walking enigma ever want with a shabby, ageing, prematurely grey, workaholic Yarder? Not to mention the DI was married, though consistently more to his work than his wife, to be brutally honest.

  

 

 

 

***********

 

**Chelsea Park Gardens. Will trade solutions for access. SH**   
**20 mins. 25 if barbed wire becomes an issue. SH**

**Not again. It's only been 2 wks since you got the new place**   
**What did you do?**

**Actually, found new arrangement. SH**   
**May need flatmate to make it work, but should suit far better than previous. SH**

**Ah. Sounds like suspiciously good luck.**   
**Staying with big brother in the meantime?**   
**Sherlock?**   
**At the house now, are you here?**

**There soon. Let yourself in. SH**

**Are you kidding?**   
**Barbed wire a problem?**   
**Sherlock.**   
**Do I need to come rescue you?**   
**Sherlock??**

**BUSY SH**

  
The door to the townhouse at Chelsea Park Gardens was unlocked, and Lestrade made his way to the dining room with relative speed and only the slightest apprehension. Mere moments confirmed his suspicions: Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Greg wasn't surprised by that in the slightest, considering his last few texts. The DI had seen Sherlock hold his own in fights and tight spots, and surely the niggling concern that had settled itself in the back of his head was generally baseless. Still, that wouldn't keep him from worrying about the lad.

Anyhow, if it did come to it, Greg was more than confident that he could find some clue to what Sherlock was up to his neck in. Indeed, the formal room was in far less disarray than during previous visits, which made it almost childishly easy. The young detective likely hadn't had much time in the last day to get as ensconced as usual and as a result, there were only a few files laid out. The papers strewn incautiously across the tabletop seemed to be from different cold cases from widely differing years, mainly case reports that in some way involved a South Tottenham container storage yard. _Ah._ At least he'd know where to go looking if Sherlock didn't turn up.

Greg was very slowly plugging the address of the place into the search on his phone when the first soft, low notes cut through his thoughts like butter, reflexively making his eyes close.

_Mycroft._

Lestrade had hardly given a second thought to the fact that the elder Holmes was most likely at home. Silently, the DI cursed Sherlock for giving him terrible habits, and himself for not thinking to knock or announce himself to the actual owner of the house.

Undoubtedly the lord of the manor knew he was here. After all, he hadn't been set upon by any ninja servants or Bond-likes in black. Surely with the status Mycroft seemed to exude when in his battle armour, he'd have more security than just lock and key, no matter how it looked at first glance.

Did Mycroft know he was listening, then? Likely the elder Holmes spared no thought for him, knowing Greg would be here to speak with Sherlock. But for a brief second, the DI entertained the thought that Mycroft knew he was here, and perhaps the flowing notes were for more than mental exercise. Ridiculous, foolish. But a tempting thought nonetheless.

Greg wouldn't want to admit to anyone that it might have been the temptation of the music, those flickering, warm arpeggios and the urge to hear them better, that drew him out of the dining room towards the stairs. The Detective Inspector hadn't been beyond the ground floor, but the consciousness of duty, coupled with the underlying desire to actually witness the man at the instrument that he had heard from afar, drew him silently and slowly up the staircase. After all, it would be rude not to announce himself if Sherlock was not here to supervise him, right? That way Mycroft would know that he knew that Mycroft knew he was here. Or something.

The light at the top of the stairs was dimmer, grey cast from a window at one end of the passage muddling a cool glow from the only open doorway. Hesitantly, Greg moved towards the room and the music grew louder. The sight that greeted the DI made him halt in the doorway.

It certainly was a grand old music room, all wooden floors and delicately patterned wallpaper, and managed the same lived in yet stately feel of what Greg had seen of the Holmes' home. The inner walls were lined with shelves stacked with of all sorts of books, music and small instrument cases, along with a small, cold fireplace. There was furniture here and there, and one whole corner was largely inhabited by a stately old piano and its rather grand bench. The windows were large and looked mostly out onto the gardens out the side and back, all wet and bare with winter.

Of course, all these things barely registered. What truly struck Greg was this:

Mycroft sat in a chair near the rear windows, mostly turned to look out over the back garden; that was, if he ever opened his eyes or was aware of his surroundings at all. Indeed, he seemed quite transported by the music he was playing, the infamous cello between his thighs. He cradled the neck near his own, fingers fairly flying on the fingerboard while he bowed. His body was swaying, seeming to feel the music and time, tune flowing with the movement. Just as he had been the only other time Greg had seen him at the house, he was dressed in only a button-down shirt and neatly-pressed linen trousers. His feet were bare.

Greg suddenly felt as if he was interrupting something sacred or terribly intimate. Like seeing King Arthur with his kit off, in bed with Guinevere, or happening upon a witch dancing nude on a moonlit heath.

Vaguely, he realised his mouth had gone completely dry, and it had nothing, _nothing_ to do with the constellation of freckles that stretched from Mycroft's instep across his foot and curled up his ankle. It had nothing to do with the defenceless stretch and sway of his long neck, nothing to do with the rock and drift of that lithe form in its chair, nothing to do with the intensity with which Mycroft was possessed by the music. Despite all this, Lestrade quickly accepted he was apparently an unrepentant voyeur, because there was no way he was moving from that spot, save some kind of horrid, earth-shattering disaster.

It was _wonderful._

There was an overly large basket near Holmes' feet, and Greg hardly noticed as a great golden lump rose from the basket and clicked its way softly across the parquet floor to shove a cold nose into the DI's hand and wag its shaggy tail gently. Greg blinked and pressed a hesitant hand to the offered head, patting the dog absently as he leant against the doorframe and simply _watched._

After a lifetime or perhaps just another minute or so, the movement came to a close and Mycroft simply stopped playing, the bow dangling from one elegant hand as it dropped slack and motionless. That long neck stretched to one side, and Greg swore silently he could count the freckles, could lose himself in it. Wished he had that kind of permission. Wondered what one had to do to get it, how many forms it would take filling out, because surely getting that close to this man would require signatures in triplicate shoved into the bottom of a filing cabinet somewhere. It certainly couldn't be something that would be approved for a married old DI from the Yard, that much would be certain. More's the pity.

A wet tongue licked his hand and there was a soft whimper, the tiniest of begging noises as the dog pressed his head once again into Lestrade's then-motionless palm. Greg scratched behind one ear vacantly, and then -

       "Turing, come."

The movement was instantaneous at that soft call. The retriever ticked softly back across the room, not even needing an order to sit or stay or lie down to climb back into his comfy basket bed. The only hesitation from the loyal pup seemed to be his heavily browed glances between master and the other man. Neither had moved, and honestly, Greg hated to be the one to do it, but he was the only one who was owing an explanation.

       "Mycroft. I, er … well. Hello."

He took a few hesitant steps into the room, at which Mycroft finally turned, glancing at him in profile.

       "Detective Inspector. Good afternoon." After a strange moment of consideration - surely not hesitation, surely not - the elder Holmes drew himself to standing, balancing the cello until he could rest it at a safe angle on the chair. "I take it my brother was not here to attend to you when you arrived."

Greg watched as the bow was dispatched onto the chair as well and shook his head, folding his hands behind his back in an effort not to fidget.

       "Sorry, no. Told me to let myself in, I'm afraid. Held up, possibly getting himself into trouble, we'll see if he doesn't show up soon. Sorry about this. I just wanted to let you know I was here. I certainly didn't want to interrupt … " He gestured vaguely towards the cello, then cleared his throat, likely looking as awkward as he felt. "I know you play to think."

       "Unsurprising, on Sherlock's part. As for my extemporisation, you were no impediment. I apologise I did not stop to- "

       "Don't you dare," Greg breathed, lips cracking into a rueful smile. "Something that beautiful shouldn't ever be apologised for. I'd've gladly stood a while longer, if I could've. Not like I'm in a rush, anyhow."

       "Oh." Mycroft's pale cheeks seemed a bit flushed, and Greg felt a little pang of triumph at somehow being able to fluster such a paragon of calm. "I was not aware you enjoyed classical music, Detective Inspector."

       "Please, call me Greg. Or at least, Lestrade, like most everyone else. No, I wouldn't say classical was truly my 'thing', honestly. But I should think anyone can appreciate beautiful, well played music." The DI gave an inelegant shrug, adding, "And I just love the sound of that particular instrument. Can't tell you why. Hits me just so, I suppose."

Of course, Greg wouldn't admit at that moment that it was Mycroft's playing that had brought him to that realisation. Or that perhaps the performer had a part to play in his preference. That would've been far too much awkward for one already rather awkward conversation to handle. But Greg felt the urge to say it, even so. Just to see what Holmes' reaction might be.

       "I know what you mean," Mycroft said softly, taking a few steps closer. "My father wanted me to play the viola. My fingers are appropriately long," he extended one hand, fanning his fingers in demonstration before shoving his hands into his trouser pockets just a bit too quickly to be anything less than nerves. "It was his instrument. But from the first time I had ever heard a cello, I hungered to play it. Luckily, my mother was too eager to encourage my musical studies to deny me. I adore it, the feel and tone of it. Palpable, if that makes any sense. And perhaps it does not. As you said, it helps me in brainstorming, or trying to straighten my thoughts."

Greg was stuck on admiring the ardor that flared in Mycroft's changeling eyes as he spoke. It was obvious, between Mycroft's fervour of speech and the way he played the passion the man felt for the instrument. As if the cello was the only lover he'd known, or ever truly felt for. Again, it was almost too intimate to put it into words, so Greg just nodded mutely.

There was a weighted silence before Holmes added, "I also play the piano. But it does not enthrall me in a similar fashion."

       "I play piano myself," Greg nodded, relieved to be on slightly more solid ground. "Mum insisted when I was four and wouldn't leave the upright in the lounge alone. Had lessons for six years until my big brother began teaching himself the guitar, and then I became completely obsessed with memorising chords." He gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head, "I think Mum was relieved 'cause she didn't have to pay for any more lessons. Well, until I was sixteen and decided to shave half my hair and join my best mate's band. Then all bets were off."

One corner of Mycroft's lips was curling into a smile, and Lestrade felt oddly proud for that.

       "I would have expected little less from you. Even without the softened calluses on your fingertips."

Greg couldn't help the soft bark of laughter.

       "Ever a Holmes. Did he learn that from you? Or is deduction ingrained in your DNA?"

       "Our father would be at fault there," Mycroft chuckled in return, his eyes full of amusement at Greg's suggestions, "And not due to the Holmes genes. He taught both my brother and I how to extrapolate information from observing minute details. It is not a superpower, we were not bitten by some hyper observative radioactive animal, nor did either of us emerge from the womb criticising the doctor for his dalliance with the attending nurse. Although I am told that, when he was slapped on his rear, Sherlock threw a fantastic strop and wee'd all over the nurse's hand."

       "That does not surprise me in the slightest!"

The two were laughing heartily now, close enough for Greg to be tempted to reach out and clap Mycroft encouragingly on the shoulder for telling him such an hilarious tale. He restrained himself; the spectre of a besuited Mycroft still flickered at the back of the DI's consciousness, vaguely threatening a lost finger should one fall out of place on his alter ego's person. But it was so very pleasant, for some reason, to see the corner of Holmes' eyes crease in amusement.

The slam of the front door, however, put paid to anymore amusing anecdotes for the time being.

       " _LESTRADE?_ "

       "Oh, Christ." Greg pressed a hand to his forehead. In all the enjoyment of the surprisingly comfortable conversation and the beautiful music, the DI had completely forgotten about Sherlock. "I'd best head down. Thanks, though. For the chat. And the music. It really is lovely, anytime I hear you play."

       "You are most welcome, Det-"

       "Greg. Or Lestrade. Please, Mycroft."

       "Very well. Gregory … _Grégoire._ "

There was something in the way Mycroft rolled his tongue about that 'r,' something that changed in the other man's gaze, something that sharpened for just a moment that made something in Greg's chest flutter _hard._ Not even his grand-mère called him that. It was perfect. _Goddamn_ the man.

       "It was my pleasure. Now, I believe you are being sought."

Stomping footfalls on the stairs heralded Sherlock's arrival, and with a wave and a grateful nod, Lestrade moved to intercept the lad before he reached the top step. He'd seen altogether too many conferences between the two brothers from afar, he didn't want to spoil the pleasant memory of their short chat with Sherlock's bile.

       "What were you doing up there, Lestrade? Did one of his henchmen catch you lurking about? I told you to just come in, didn't I?" Sherlock groused as, covered practically head to toe in mud, he was steered back down to the hall.

       "Nothing, just paying my respects, Sherlock. I never get t'say a proper hello to your brother, and it is his house, after all. Just wanted to give him the thanks I know you never pass his way."

Sherlock sneered as Greg pushed him towards the dining room and the answers he'd hopefully get there.

       "Please. Mycroft deserves no thanks. Providing me with room and board is payment for all the miseries, small and large, he puts me through on a routine basis. Why, just because I wasn't kicked out this time- "

       "Details, Sherlock. And take your shoes and coat off before you sit. You're absolutely filthy."

That Sherlock did as asked spoke to the secret respect he held for Lestrade. That he flung the offending items carelessly into a likely priceless antique chair before collapsing into another spoke to the open contempt he had for his elder brother.

Greg took a deep breath and prayed patience. He then claimed another chair at the table, slouching as Sherlock started to build up a head of steam. As the young man began delving deep into the details of the cases before them and describing his earlier detainment due to being chased and trapped for a time by the storage yard's security - strangely heavy for a normal container yard, apparently - Lestrade already felt his attention fraying, half listening and half drifting off into a daydream.

It was of a bright room filled with warm cello music, quicksilver eyes, a quirked smile and bare feet covered in a constellation of freckles.

 

 

 

 

***********

 

 

A/N: I will admit that I am in the midst of reading Parade's End and Greg's relationship is coming largely out of some serious feels in that direction. So, all props and frustrated honour to Ford Madox Ford.

Thank you for the lovely comments and kudos so far, everyone. I hope you continue to enjoy.


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